It's Not Over Yet
by AllItTakes
Summary: Ziva, throughout the years. / "Yes," she says at last, her whole body trembling as she takes her father's outstretched hand, "Yes, I'll do it." /


I'm not really sure of this one but I decided what the hell, and put it out there. I think I tweaked a few details to fit the story but most of it's canon.

Not gonna lie, Ziva's character is fucking fascinating.

* * *

_i._

"Yes," she says at last, her whole body trembling as she takes her father's outstretched hand, "Yes, I'll do it."

_ii._

Their differences were measured in moments, a gesture, a wail that set them apart from the minute they left the comfort of their mother's womb. Ari let out an ear-splitting cry the moment he was born, so loud, so piercing that the nurse laughed and said, "He'll be a handful, that one, just you watch." But she, born dark haired and dry-eyed, hardly let out a whimper, choosing instead to stare at their mother with unafraid, disappointed eyes as if she already resented her for forcing her into this world. And Talia, the best one out of all of them, giggled and shrieked, a spot of brightness right from the start.

What matters is this: there is a man named Eli David who lives, works, loves his children very much. This much she knows is true, has thought about it repeatedly, obsessively, until the words are branded on the back of her eyelids. He loves his children, he _did_. This she knows is true, a fact.

What matters is this: she used to take ballet, used to sink into plies at the barre, used to practice her arabesques until her arms were sore, but then Tali died and everything blended into shades of red and before long, she was learning how to shoot a rifle instead of pointing her feet.

What matters is this: blood dries the color of rust, and it takes three washing before it finally fades from underneath her fingernails. It is the glue that holds her spool of memories together, a constant that she learns to take for granted. _Ziva, you will be great one day. You will force the world to its knees._

What matters is this—and always will—perhaps for the rest of her life: she spends a year in Spain, another in Bermuda, eight months in Croatia, and countless days and weeks across the world. She does not regret a single kill, does not reminiscence about a single identity, because there is no room for doubt in a life like hers—she is certain there must have been a time before rage and grief colored her life, but if there was she cannot remember it.

_iii._

On her ninth birthday, she gets into her first fight with a boy who pulled on Tali's pigtails until she cried. His name was Rudy Weberstein, and he jeered at her when she told him to stop.

So she wraps her fist closed and aims for his nose. She misses, actually, hits his eye instead, but her father, watching from the parking lot, smiles.

When Rudy staggers back to his friends, a purple starburst already blooming over his right eye, Ziva runs to her father who stamps a kiss onto the tip of her hairline.

Ari, watching from the car, asks with wide eyes, "Will she be punished, Aba?"

Ziva looks up at him, bold and unafraid, ready to accept whatever punishment befalls on her. Instead, her father cups her cheek and says, "No, Ari. I'm going to teach her how to hit someone without getting her knuckles bruised."

And she, her father's little warrior, nods.

_iv._

She witnesses her first bombing when she's fourteen.

It's a warm day, warmer than the weatherman predicted, and she's in a tank top and shorts. She's at Deena's house and they're both laughing at how Shmuel Wiesman tripped over his own feet when they were playing dodge ball.

Deena's mother comes home then and immediately pulls Ziva into a hug, saying, "How nice to see you again, Ziva. You're staying for dinner, yes?"

Sometimes she wishes that she could just stay with Deena's family forever because it's nice having someone who hugs you and whispers into your hair and her own mother barely smiles these days, choosing instead to stay in her room for most of the time. She nods.

"Deena," the girl's mother rolls her eyes as she heads for the kitchen, "have you even offered our guest some tea?"

She begins to boil some water and all Ziva can think is, _Deena is the luckiest girl in the world._

Deena quickly bounds to her feet. "Well, I was, but then the funniest thing happened in school—"

The ground suddenly shakes beneath their feet, enough to throw them stumbling, and Deena's smile becomes frozen and bewildered. She and her mother drop to the ground, arms over their heads, _fearfearfear _written all over their faces.

But Ziva remains standing and knows, instinctively, to look out the window where sure enough, there is thin plume of smoke rising off in the distance and the screams of the others are starting to filter through. Deena and her mother are cowering underneath the coffee table but she is calm and steady and _knows _that somehow, her father was behind this.

"Ziva?" Deena asks tremulously. "What are you—"

The kettle blows.

_v._

Ari is the one who tells her that Tali is dead, his voice low, his eyes swimming with tears that do not fall. Ziva takes the news like a physical blow, staggering underneath the weight of her grief. Not Tali, not her, anyone but her—_the best out of all of them_.

"It was Hamas. They were aiming for the market. Tali was—she was on her way home from her dance lesson. She didn't—the bomb—she died instantly—" Ari forces out, his grip tight on her shoulders.

She doesn't remember much after that except that her father's eyes were dark as a black hole and just as empty, that the crack of her heart breaking lined up to the sound of her mother's sobs, that grief, in large doses, can be used to form a shell of her old self.

Ari later tells her that she didn't speak at all for an entire day, that she dug her fingernails so hard into her palm that she left scars. That when her father asked her to say a few words at Tali's funeral, she walked out of the room without a single word.

What she does remember is going to the shooting range and firing her weapon until her hair smelled like gunpowder. She remembers beating the punching bag until her knuckles bled, her fists throwing haphazard punches with anguish.

_I'm going to teach her how to hit someone without getting her knuckles bruised._

She does not cry.

In the morning, she wakes up to bloody hands and smoky hair and a stone of grief in her heart.

Two days later, she is dressed in black, Ari at her right, her mother at her left. Her father does not attend the funeral.

Three weeks later, she officially joins Mossad.

_vi._

She makes a good killer and an even better agent, the best in her class. Her father watches with cold grey eyes as she makes hit after hit, closes up cases faster than some of his senior agents. He knows, has known since the minute she was born, that Ziva would be the best he could ever hope for.

Aaron Dotan is short, dark-eyed, and is making a considerable profit from selling Mossad secrets. He has white teeth and grabby hands. She poses as a travel agent and offers him a discount on a flight to Bora Bora, and agrees when he later asks if she would like to accompany him. They sit in the first class section, a flute of champagne in her hand, a flirty glint in her smile.

She does not want to kill him, but she will, if she must, because she has never disobeyed an order before and does not plan on starting now.

"Would you like anything else?" the stewardess asks. She slips a hand on her client's leg, her breath warms the shell of his ear.

He shivers, and she smiles. "Could you take us somewhere more private?"

Her teeth glint and she waits; she blazes a trail of red and leaves ashes behind.

_vii._

Gibbs has a hard smile, she notices. A bit rough around the edges, too calloused, all lines and right angles—the quiet grief in his eyes is all too familiar.

_viii._

It is silent in the basement. In one heartbeat, she has become an only child.

Ari is lying on the floor, blood unfurling around him like the petals on a rose. And suddenly the pain that is always inside her, tightly coiled like a gun, swells into something so big and so fierce, it feels like it will burst her heart, split her skull, tear apart her cool façade of control.

She has killed her brother. Ari, the boy who bought her toffee with his allowance, the boy who gave her a slingshot for her seventh birthday. The boy who would later grow up to do unspeakable things to innocent people.

The gun is still hot in her hands.

Gibbs is staring at her, his face impassive—isn't it always?—and the very air around them is still. She thinks back to the moment when her father asked her to become Ari's control officer; did he know that this could have happened, that he has pitted two children against each other to the point where only one could survive?

_I'm sorry_, she thinks. _This wasn't supposed to happen_, she thinks. _Our father loves us_, she thinks, uselessly, and crosses the room to her brother's body.

"You saved my life." Gibbs whispers into her ear but she can't be proud of that, not just yet, not with Ari lying there so still and broken. His words, instead of comforting her, make her sick.

That night, she calls her father. "Ari is dead, Aba."

She knows that he already knew this from the way his breathing does not change, how the silence that stretches between them is tense and hesitant. He is quiet for a long time, his breathing soft and shallow, and when he speaks, his voice is careful and measured and stabs at her heart. "I am sorry, Ziva. I know you two were close."

She closes her eyes and hangs up first.

_ix._

"I volunteered," she tells Tony, and thinks of the way the raindrops stick to the strands of his hair, the ends of his eyelashes. He's smart enough to know when to leave a topic alone.

"_Laila tov_," she throws over her shoulder and leaves him there, standing in the city's artificial lights.

_x._

Timothy McGee is the first one to accept her into this strange new family. Still obviously grieving over Kate, yes, but he knows what kindness is and he's the first to extend it to her. She has trouble understanding how he came to be, ungainly like a fresh born colt and possessing more courage than she was expecting.

Ducky is next, regaling her with stories about Edinburgh and his youth. _I once knew a girl from Ireland—_and she would smile and sit back.

Abby is the last one to accept her, but she knows the minute when the goth finally does, all hugs and squeals and offers to massage therapies.

And Gibbs, well, she's not sure, exactly, when he accepted her onto his team. When she first meets him, she tries very hard to avoid his gaze: his eyes are as hard as her father's, chips of ice that gave nothing away. But then she saw him soften. There was a kindness to him that she had not noticed the first time: he rolls his eyes at Tony and head slaps him over something as simple as spreading rumors; he gives a Caff-Pow to Abby every time he visits; and when a suspect they were chasing grabbed her arm and forced it out of its socket, he jolts her back together, quick and easy, then presses a kiss to her temple like Ari kissing away the bruises on her elbows and knees.

She thinks, dangerously, _if I was ordered to kill you, I would refuse. I would say no. _

Tony—well, he's a cocky bastard, she decides right from the start, but she can deal with him because underneath the movie quotes and prepubescent humor, she's seen enough of the world to recognize a kindred soul when she sees one. He has this _draw_, this magnetic _pull_ to him that she can't help but be attracted to.

"You've never seen it?" he asks, flabbergasted, one day at the office a couple months after she became the official Mossad liaison. "It's a _classic_ with your typical ragtag group of nerds striking it big on the poker table. I mean, how could you _not_?"

Later that evening he comes by holding a grocery bag and a copy of _21_, an exaggerated puppy dog pout on his face. "If you don't let me in, all this ice cream's gonna melt."

She smiles. "The last one we watched was disappointing. How do I know this won't be?"

He gives her a look. "Please, my little ninja, a little faith? Besides, even McGee with his total lack of cinematic appreciation likes this one."

That's how it starts: Friday night movie nights turn into Saturday morning breakfasts, which in turn becomes Tuesday morning runs and Thursday morning coffee runs. It's nice and simple and easy and when her feet are in Tony's lap and he's explaining _Letterman_ to her, she doesn't think about Mossad and her father and Ari.

It feels so real, it's almost expected when it all comes crashing down.

_xi._

"_Did you or did you not sleep with him?_"

And her heart stutters to a halt. Romance and sex have always been mutually exclusive to her—tools to use to gather information, gain the trust of a mark. It's what she _does_.

But this thing with Tony—it's bigger than she thought it'd be—it's _complicated_, she tries telling her father, but she already knows what his answer's gonna be—_it doesn't have to be_.

"Did you?" he asks, and she shakes her head.

"No, Aba, never." And they leave it at that.

She never gives him a reason, just begins to decline his invitations to get drinks with him, stops replying to his texts.

And slowly, just like that, their relationship disintegrates until it's nothing but professional.

"How was your weekend?" he asks on a Monday morning, even though a month ago he would spent the weekend with her watching old Hollywood films and stuffing themselves with microwavable popcorn.

"Fine," she replies, and they leave it at that.

She thinks back to their very first meeting, the two of them standing in front of the hotel with cups of espresso warming their hands, and knows that whatever the two of them share, it's not over yet.

_xii._

She does not fall in love with him but grows used to his presence, so much so that when Jeanne enters his life, she feels his absence like a physical wound, a phantom limb that won't go away.

When she finally meets Jeanne and the truth comes out, she wonders if they're both mourning a man who never existed.

_xiii._

When Vance reassigns their team, she's relieved. This year has been too eventful, too hectic. She is not the same person she was when she first joined and she is unsure if that's a good thing. Perhaps a change will do her good.

"It's not fair!" Abby whines as she wraps her in a monster hug. "Who will I immortalize on my broomsticks now?"

She returns the hug with a sincerity that is new to her. "Do not worry, Abby. I'm sure Gibbs will think of something."

But she's been in this business long enough to know the chances of the team being reunited again are slim at best, and she's used to saying a thousand goodbyes to a thousand different people, so she ends with a half-hearted reassurance: "We'll see each other again, I'm sure."

"We better." She says with a pop of her bubblegum. "Otherwise Gibbs will suffer my wrath for all eternity."

On her way out, she thinks that it's strange how everyone is thinking this divide will be temporary when she is looking for anything _but_ temporary.

_xiv._

McGee slumps his shoulders. "It's the Siberia of the workplace. I mean, they don't even have _windows_ down there."

"At least you and Abby will still see other," she reminds him. He brightens momentarily before realizing that the others will not have that privilege.

"Take care of yourself, Tim." She pats a soft guilt-filled cheek and he smiles tentatively. She rarely uses his first name except in serious situations.

"Same for you, Officer Lisa."

_xv._

Tony is, contrary to popular opinions, the easiest one to say goodbye to. They ride the elevator down together and for a minute, she considers pressing the emergency stop button to talk, really talk to each other in a way they haven't done for a year now.

But the elevator continues, smooth in its descent, and when they're standing in front of their respective cars, she clears her voice, a fierce ache springing in her chest.

"Goodbye, Tony." She doesn't quite meet his eyes.

He stares at her intently, his throat working up and down. He ends up saying nothing. Just swallows roughly and nods.

She thinks back to their movie nights, the early morning runs, the consecutive head slaps, Jenny, flicking paperclips at him in her spare time—the last thought she has before they both turn away is, _saying goodbye can't possibly be this easy._

_xvi._

"You have a place on this team," Gibbs reminds her. "Don't screw it up."

_xvii._

The dress is glittery and clings to her like a second skin. Her target is a suspected terrorist and a known bomb maker. She tosses her hair over one shoulder and smiles at him.

It takes her a while, too long, to understand what is happening, and when she does, the bomb has already gone off and the distinct smell of burning skin—_her_ burning skin—has already invaded her senses.

Eighteen hours later, she wakes up in a hospital bed with the news coverage running on every channel. She watches the footage, transfixed, and wonders disbelievingly, _I left them for __this__?_

_xviii_

Michael Rifkin is not a weakness, only a blind spot she did not see coming, so when he reenters her life so suddenly, abruptly, like a hot spot flaring up after years of being dormant, she's left momentarily stunned.

And then everything starts piling up into one big mess she can't get out of, Michael-Tony-even-Gibbs and she can't _take_ it anymore—she's _sick_ of it, sick of always being in control, always knowing what to do, always having her father two steps ahead of her, and she's _falling_, so deep and so fast, and she can't find a way _out_—

Everything builds and she's reminded of the laws of chemistry—increase pressure but not volume and _something will give_—but then her father hands her a file and there's a look in his eyes, the same one he had when Tali died and they were still hunting for the bomber, the same one when Ari turned and he sent her after him—_at any cost_.

When she gets captured, she's a spitfire, cursing at her captors every chance she gets. And she gets punished, too, brutally and without mercy. But she, like everybody who's been doing this long enough, knows that it's not a matter of _if_ but _when_.

"Tell me about NCIS," her captor commands.

"The computers are outdated." She says and gasps when a steel boot crashes into her ribcage.

"Tell me about NCIS," he says again.

"Everyone's a gossip." This time, the boot hits her lower back.

Her first week passes and she can already see how it will play out, each step of the way. She will continue to hold out and curse at Saleem, but gradually, slowly, bit by bit, her rebellion will dry up until she has wasted away. And then one day, they will have the mercy to shoot her and she will float away, a pinprick in a washed out canvas.

But of course, that's not how it works out.

_xix._

"_Couldn't live without you, I guess_."

His eyes are so earnest, so full of _love_ that she has to look away; she knows better than that.

_xx._

Standing in the lab a month after her return, she doesn't even realize she's moved until McGee is wheezing in pain and Abby is looking at her with wide eyes.

Her mind takes a few seconds to catch up: McGee is twisted into a deadly chokehold by her arm from which his face is slowly turning purple, and Abby is staring at her with frightened doe eyes. He had been reaching for the test results that were printing next to her, she realized, and she had just _reacted_. She immediately takes a step back, and McGee doubles over, clutching the counter as his lungs struggle to take in some air.

Abby slowly walks toward her. "Ziva? Do you, um, maybe wanna talk to somebody?"

Her fingers are bunched into a tight fist because she can still feel McGee's trachea pressing into the crook of her elbow. She does not want to talk to anybody, not about Somalia, not about Saleem, not about Michael, and definitely not about this.

"I'm sorry, McGee." She says evenly. "It will not happen again." She heads for the elevator, hesitating slightly, and debates turning around. But really, there's nothing else for her to say.

_xxi._

Gibbs corners her in the elevator later that day. "Heard you almost tried to kill McGee today."

She stiffens. "It was an accident."

"Seems there's been a lot of accidents, lately."

She doesn't bother denying it. "Yes."

Gibbs hits the emergency stop button and the elevator shudders to a halt. He doesn't look at her but chooses instead to stare straight ahead at their reflections. "I'm on my fourth boat right now. Haven't finished it yet. Might get it done quicker with some help."

He gives her a look out of the corner of his eye then pushes the button so that the elevator begins moving again. "I don't lock my door."

_xxii._

It takes her two tries to make it to his place, three to actually knock on the door.

She is afraid of what's outside and hates herself for it.

_xxiii._

The first time she comes by, he hands her a drink and a sander tool. They don't talk much. He tells her what to do and she asks the occasional question but it's mostly silent. When she leaves, her arms are sore from sanding the bow and her back creaks like an old hinge, but she gets her first full night of sleep in months.

The second time is easier, less stilted. He teachers her sailing terms—_port_ and _starboard_ and _jibing_—and when she smiles, it's not forced. When she leaves, there are sawdust curls in her hair and new calluses on her palms.

She spends more time in that basement than she will admit, but the constant scrape of sandpaper against the hull, the feathery shavings that litter the floor and smoky flavor of bourbon on her tongue—she can see why Gibbs likes it here so much.

On her fourth visit, she takes a deep breath—bold from the alcohol, perhaps—and says conversationally, "I'm seeing a therapist."

Gibbs doesn't say anything but turns his head to show he's listening.

"It's… going well, I think."

She's not sure of her therapist. Vance ordered her to undergo mandatory psychiatric counseling the minute she got back so it's not like any of this is _voluntary_, but Dr. Lowery is a woman with a kind face who listen, really listens, to her when she talks. At their last meeting, they set some goals and worked on coping mechanisms.

"We'll have to compare notes then." Gibbs refills her glass. "I see mine every Wednesday."

She smiles and continues to work on the hull, wood shavings raining down on them like snowflakes in the wind.

_xxiv._

A week later, she buys McGee lunch as an apology for attacking him. She takes two Caff-Pows to Abby as an apology for scaring her.

Abby lights up when she gives them to her, and then throws her arms around Ziva's shoulders for a sloppy hug. "When you were—gone, I was—it's all okay now, yeah?"

And standing there with Abby looking at her so earnestly, all the pain and the anger and the blind rage seems so very far away.

"Yeah," she says hoarsely. "I'm okay." And for the first time since she's returned, she means it.

_xxv._

"Tonight. Midnight showing. _Catch Me If You Can_. Leo DiCaprio in his glorified early days. Who's in?"

McGee doesn't even look up. "Pass."

"What do you think, DiNozzo?" Gibbs raises an eyebrow and Tony turns away hastily to cast an exaggerated pout in her direction.

"What do you say, Zee-vah? Throw a guy a bone, won't ya?"

"Why would I give you a bone?" she wonders aloud. "You are not a puppy, Tony, even though you sometimes act like one."

He doesn't even rise to the bait, which is how she knows he really wants this. "I'll explain it to you if you come," he winks.

She tilts her head then nods decisively. "Sure."

"Really? I didn't think you would—I mean, _yes_— this is gonna be _awesome_." He practically skips back to his desk and she grins at her screen because they are finally back to normal. The two of them have been on thin ice since Jenny, skirted around each other since Somalia, and it's nice to have him back.

McGee smiles at her, a quick upturn of his lips, and she realizes that he has purposely declined to give the two of them some time. She resolves to buy him a chocolate éclair from the bakery the next time she goes.

The movie theatre is an old three-dollar-per-movie place with stale popcorn and ripped upholstery on the seats and a ticket attendant who seems more fixed on the cut of her blouse than handing them the right change. But the movie is good and DiCaprio is _especially_ handsome in this one and she has a good time, the best in a while.

He hogs the popcorn so she hogs the armrest and when the movie ends, she bends down like she's getting her bag but instead ties his shoelaces together. When he stands, he immediately trips into the aisle, scaring a family of four, and she laughs. He tugs off his shoes and throws it at her head, which she dodges easily.

He beams at her from his position on the floor and says quietly, "It's nice to have you back, my little ninja."


End file.
